Dan O'Sullivan: It's your
Lips have kissed “The Blarney,” sure!—
To be trillin’ praise av me,
Dhrippin’ swhate wid poethry!—
Not that I'd not have ye sing —
Do n't lave off for anything —
Jusht be aisy whilst the fit
Av me head shwells up to it!
Dade and thrue, I'm not the man,
Whilst yer singin’, loike ye can,
To cry shtop because ye've blesht
My songs more than all the resht:—
I'll not be the b'y to ax
Any shtar to wane or wax,
Or ax any clock that's woun’
To run up inshtid av down!
Whist yez! Dan O'Sullivan!—
Him that made the Irishman
Mixt the birds in wid the dough,
And the dew and mistletoe
Wid the whusky in the quare
Muggs av us — and here we air,
Three parts right, and three parts wrong,
Shpiked with beauty, wit and song!